That Time in Paris Read online

  That Time in Paris

  A Wolfgang Pierce Novella

  Logan Ryles

  Contents

  Also by Logan Ryles

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Wolfgang Returns in…

  That Time in Cairo

  Ready for more?

  About the Author

  Also by Logan Ryles

  End Page

  Copyright © 2021 by Logan Ryles. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  THAT TIME IN PARIS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  Published by Ryker Morgan Publishing.

  Cover design by German Creative.

  Also by Logan Ryles

  The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series

  Prequel: That Time in Appalachia (coming soon)

  Book 1: That Time in Paris

  Book 2: That Time in Cairo (coming April 23)

  Book 3: That Time in Moscow (coming May 7)

  Book 4: That Time in Rio (coming May 21)

  Book 5: That Time in Tokyo (coming June 4)

  Book 6: That Time in Sydney (coming June 18)

  The Reed Montgomery Thriller Series

  Prequel: Sandbox, a short story (read for free at LoganRyles.com)

  Book 1: Overwatch

  Book 2: Hunt to Kill

  Book 3: Total War

  Book 4: Smoke & Mirrors

  Book 5: Survivor

  Book 6: Death Cycle (coming soon)

  Book 7: Sundown (coming soon)

  Visit LoganRyles.com to receive a free copy of Sandbox.

  The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series is dedicated to:

  Abby and Naomi, my original super fans, and two of the coolest people I know.

  Thanks for keeping me inspired.

  “Paris is not a city; it’s a world.”

  - King Francis I

  1

  June, 2011

  Horace Artemus Hawthorn IV stumbled down the sidewalk fifteen yards ahead of Wolfgang. In spite of the stiff breeze that ripped through the city, sweat streamed down the polished face of the fourth-generation Chicago aristocrat, outlining his red-rimmed eyes. Every few steps, Hawthorn caught himself against the glass face of a high-dollar storefront. He dropped his briefcase and wiped his forehead, dislodging the eight hundred dollar Gucci eyeglasses he wore as he struggled for balance.

  Wolfgang stopped on the sidewalk and passed his own briefcase to his free hand, giving Hawthorn a moment to collect himself. The briefcase was identical to the one Hawthorn carried, albeit empty, and Wolfgang felt a little conspicuous carrying it.

  Who even uses briefcases anymore?

  Crowds of bustling Chicagoans surged around them, passing Hawthorn with no more notice than if he had been a panhandler. Wolfgang adjusted the light jacket he wore, feeling the weight of the package strapped to his lower back. It bit into his skin and chafed with every stride, but the close proximity to his body kept the package invisible to the naked eye. That was lucky, because if any one of the half-dozen cops he had passed in the last half hour detected the package, Wolfgang would have earned a one-way ticket to prison faster than he could sneeze.

  Hawthorn swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief—something Wolfgang figured only truly rich people carried—and then adjusted his glasses. He recovered his briefcase from the sidewalk and started forward again. His shoulders squared in the resolute stature of a man who believed himself to be self-made, regardless of the silver spoon he was born clutching. With each stride, he stared directly over the heads of the meaningless worker bees that surged past him—mere pawns in the game of empire of which he was a key player. But in spite of Hawthorn’s confident stride and condescending glare, there was a tremor in his knees and an uncertainty to his steps that couldn’t be hidden. It was an odd dichotomy to the strange and unexpected euphoria that Wolfgang knew Hawthorn had experienced over the past three weeks.

  Heroin is a hell of a drug. Especially when you don’t know you’re taking it.

  Wolfgang hurried after Hawthorn, checking his watch as he slipped among the bustling pedestrians.

  It had been seven minutes since Hawthorn left the coffee shop. Each morning, he left his thirtieth-story penthouse in the Millennium Centre tower and took a private car to his favorite coffee shop, where a dark roast with two creams and one sugar awaited him. He sat near the window, where all the peasants of the world could stare longingly at his sculpted jawline and premium Armani-clad physique, and made a show of reading the Chicago Tribune.

  Wolfgang doubted whether Hawthorn could read at all, but for a rising star in the powerhouse world of business, appearance was everything.

  After consuming the coffee, Hawthorn trashed the paper and walked two blocks to the office suite of Hawthorn and Company, a multi-billion-dollar real estate firm founded by his great-grandfather over a century before, now located on the eightieth floor of the Willis Tower.

  And there, encased in an oak panel office, sitting behind the Rolls Royce of desks, the young master of the universe planned the development and destruction of a real estate empire worth more than a small country.

  That was a typical day for Hawthorn, but today was anything save typical. Today Hawthorn was destined to spearhead his very first major deal—the eight-hundred-million-dollar acquisition of a rival firm based out of Houston. It was young Hawthorn’s first foray into the serious business usually managed exclusively by his father, Hawthorn III, and it marked his initiation as the future CEO of the company.

  This was why Hawthorn plowed on toward the Willis Building, in spite of the chills that racked his body and the dizziness that sent him stumbling into walls. After all, heroin is a hell of a drug, and you can’t just blindly ingest it for three weeks and then cut yourself off two days before the biggest meeting of your life.

  Too bad Hawthorn didn’t know he’d been ingesting it. The doses had been small—just frequent and powerful enough to give him a jolt of jollies, yet innocent enough to be dismissed as the thrill of impending corporate stardom. When Wolfgang cut off the supply a little over forty hours before, the loss hadn’t been noticed. Not until now, anyway. Now, the rages of withdrawal were in full effect, clouding Hawthorn’s mind and jeopardizing his entire future.

  Wolfgang remained close enough to keep Hawthorn in sight, but far enough that nobody would take note. The cold sidewalks of downtown Chicago passed beneath him amid a clamor of car horns and shouting voices, but it was easy to keep Hawthorn in sight all the way up to the front steps of the mighty Willis Tower.

  Formerly the Sears Building, the Willis Tower was the tallest building in Chicago and the third tallest building in America. Jutting almost fifteen hundred feet into the sky, it loomed over downtown Chicago like a domineering emphasis dedicated to the gods of the corporate universe—which it pretty much was.

  Hawthorn stumbled up the front steps toward the glass canopy entrance of the tower. Tourists from around the world were already crowding toward the building, eager to experience the breathtaking view from the tower’s observation deck.
Hawthorn ignored them, pausing at the door and suddenly clutching one hand over his stomach.

  Wolfgang checked his watch. Nine minutes and eighteen seconds had elapsed since Hawthorn left the coffee shop, which meant that his present gut distress was right on schedule. Wolfgang closed the distance between them as Hawthorn pushed through the door and stepped into the massive lobby. More tourists and suit-clad businessmen hid Wolfgang from view as he followed Hawthorn toward the elevator.

  But Hawthorn never made it to the elevator. He came within two paces, then doubled over, gripping his stomach. A moment later, he spun on his heel and bolted toward the lobby bathrooms, waddling like an old man with stiff knees—because a laxative is also a hell of a drug and virtually undetectable when mixed in a dark roast with two creams and one sugar.

  Wolfgang turned to follow, his shoulders loosening as his stress level began to subside. The operation was all but over now. Hawthorn blasted through the door into the lobby-level bathrooms, and Wolfgang followed two strides behind. The bathroom was bright, with light gleaming off of porcelain sinks and polished mirrors. Banks of bathroom stalls lined the right-hand wall, and Hawthorn made for the first one, sliding through the door like a baseball player skidding onto home plate. The door smacked shut, the briefcase hit the floor, and then Hawthorn hit the throne.

  Wolfgang winced at the sounds erupting from the stall. He dug beneath the collar of his dress shirt and produced a stretchy neck gaiter, passing it across his mouth and nose to help block out the smell as he slipped into the stall adjacent to Hawthorn’s. Wolfgang kicked the seat cover down over the toilet and sat down as Hawthorn grunted and groaned like a cow giving birth. His hand smacked against the side of the wall as though he were retching, and then another wave of bodily ejections erupted inside Hawthorn’s stall.

  Wolfgang grimaced and tried to hold his breath. He dug a pair of rubber surgical gloves from his pocket and tugged them on, wishing he could pull them over his head instead. Then he peeked beneath the edge of the stall. Hawthorn’s briefcase was visible, standing next to the toilet, only inches from Wolfgang’s fingers. He waited until Hawthorn retched and groaned again, then quickly swapped his briefcase for Hawthorn’s.

  Wolfgang produced a small case from his pocket and snapped it open over his knees. Two electronic plates were inside, connected by wires. The plates featured tiny LED screens on the top sides, with three rubber wheels and a rubber thumb on the bottom side. Wolfgang lifted the plates out of the case and fitted them over the locking dials on the briefcase. The rubber wheels landed perfectly over the metal dials of the briefcase’s combination lock, sucking tight against it with magnetic force, and the rubber thumb pressed against the lock switch. He checked to ensure that the device was properly aligned, then hit the only button on either plate.

  A soft whirring began a moment later, and numbers flashed across the LED screens as the device began to spin the dials while the rubber thumbs maintained pressure on the lock switches. It checked twenty-eight possible combinations every second as the right-hand device worked backward from 999 and the left worked upward from 000.

  It was almost certain that both combinations were the same, so as soon as one device founded a winning number, the second device would cease its search and attempt the same number on the opposite side. Most people set the combinations of both sides to the same number, and Hawthorn was anything but a security genius.

  Wolfgang leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting and trying not to breathe. Seconds ticked by, and then the left-hand lock popped open with a soft click. 317. Wolfgang tried not to roll his eyes. He should have guessed that number. It was Hawthorn’s birthday.

  The right-hand plate attempted the same combination a second later, and the lock popped open. He pocketed the device, his fingers moving in a blur as he reached into his coat and unclipped the package from his lower back.

  The pod that he produced from beneath his coat wasn’t much bigger than a cell phone, but about four times as thick and worth infinitely more. Wolfgang opened it at the same time he opened the briefcase, and carefully deposited its contents inside. Heroin. A lot of heroin. Enough to get Hawthorn slapped with an intent-to-distribute charge.

  Wolfgang clicked the briefcase shut amid another round of groans from Hawthorn, and then swapped it with his own again. Then he straightened, flushed the toilet in case anybody was observing him, and exited the bathroom. After conducting a perfunctory wash of his hands, he walked back through the lobby and into the crisp Chicago air, drawing his phone and punching in a number from memory. The phone rang twice before an elderly male voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  Wolfgang would have known he was talking to an old white WASP by the tone of that word alone.

  “Mr. Dudley, my name is Richard Greeley. I’m with the Wall Street Journal.”

  “How the hell did you get this number?”

  “I’m working on a story involving your company’s merger with Hawthorn and Co and was wondering if you had a comment on Horace Hawthorn’s drug problem. Will it be a consideration in the final negotiations?”

  “Drug problem? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The Daily reported on it just this morning, Mr. Dudley. You are involved in final negotiations, are you not?”

  The phone clicked off, and Wolfgang lowered it from his ear, shooting off a quick message to a contact labeled only as “E.”

  Operation complete.

  Less than a minute passed before a reply lit up the screen.

  B&B. 3.

  The Baker and Bean Café and Coffee Shop sat on the edge of downtown, close enough to Lake Michigan that the waterfront wind wafted away the smell of coffee and pastries, replacing it with an odor a lot more fishy and a lot less appetizing. Somebody probably thought it was a great idea to put a cutesy coffee joint this close to the water, but like most contrived attempts at “old-fashioned simplicity,” it didn’t really work.

  Wolfgang was okay with that. He drank little coffee, and he wasn’t hungry anyway, so he didn’t have an appetite to be spoiled by the acrid odor of diesel fumes and fish guts. Nonetheless, he ordered a water because a man sitting alone in a coffee shop with no drink drew more attention than he wanted.

  Edric arrived seventeen minutes late, which Wolfgang expected. Edric had probably been on scene for the better part of an hour but was willing to let Wolfgang sit by himself—exposed—long enough to flush out any possible assassins.

  “It’s Chicago, Eddie,” Wolfgang said as the older man slipped up to the table with an oversized jacket draped over one shoulder. “Nobody is waiting to kill us.”

  Edric sat down, allowing the coat to slide off his shoulder and into his lap, exposing a white cast encasing his right arm from his shoulder to his wrist. Wolfgang sat up, but Edric held up a cautioning finger.

  “What have I told you about that?”

  Wolfgang sighed and rolled his eyes. “Act. Never react.”

  “That’s right. It should’ve been a red flag when I walked in here wearing a coat in early June. Why wasn’t it?”

  “Because you’re my boss,” Wolfgang said. “And because I’m wearing a coat. Because people wear coats in Chicago all times of the year, and because I really don’t care. What happened to you, anyway?”

  Edric waved his good arm dismissively as the server approached.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, barely glancing at Edric as her gaze swept Wolfgang from ankle to forehead.

  Wolfgang winked at her, a grin creeping across his face.

  “Dark house roast,” Edric said, shooting Wolfgang a glare. “Black.”

  She walked off, her hips swaying beneath her apron. Wolfgang followed those hips with his eyes until they disappeared behind the counter.

  Edric snapped the fingers on his good hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Wolfgang shrugged, leaned back, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Based on my physiological reaction to that ass, I
’d say all systems are fully operational. What’s wrong with you?”

  Edric leaned back, rubbing his chin as his bandaged arm rested on his thigh. He stared Wolfgang down for a long moment, then sighed. “Debrief.”

  Wolfgang closed his eyes and cocked his head until his neck crackled. “Hawthorn is a heroin addict, but he doesn’t know it, and he’s currently enjoying some aggressive withdrawals. I phoned a tip to the lead partner of the company out of Houston. When he sees Hawthorn sweating bullets today, he’ll connect the dots. At some point, the heroin in Hawthorn’s briefcase will be discovered, and the deal will collapse. Mission accomplished.” Wolfgang rattled off the answer in relaxed monotone, his gaze drifting back to the server about halfway through.

  She set the coffee on the table and smiled at Wolfgang with a little scrunch of her nose—some kind of cutesy gesture, he supposed—then disappeared again.

  Edric ignored the coffee and stared Wolfgang down. “Why heroin?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you select heroin?”

  “Oh, you know. I’m using cocaine now, but I had some heroin in my sock drawer. Does it matter?”

  Edric made a production of rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “Yes, it matters. Depending on the drug and how you sourced it, that could be a weakness in the operation—a hole that could be exploited if somebody started poking around. Unless, of course, you actually are taking drugs. . .”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not on drugs. What’s wrong with you? I bought the heroin off a dealer in Detroit. It’s not traceable. Hawthorn is a walking idiot, and nobody is going to question his addiction. Frankly, I’m surprised he wasn’t already using. My god, Edric. You get more suspicious all the time.”